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though breezes blew through the trees only a dozen yards away. The treemage stood with his back against an old beech, only his eyes moving to follow Wad’s movement through the grass.
    â€œHe does well,” said the treemage.
    â€œI didn’t ask,” said Wad.
    â€œYou asked before, and now I have an answer,” said the treemage.
    â€œI find that I’ve sworn to kill an evil mage, but because she’s lying in a coma I don’t know if I can do it.”
    â€œDo men refuse to cut down a tree because it doesn’t speak or walk?”
    â€œCut down a tree and you can build something. A house or furniture or a fire. Cut down a sleeping mage, and all you have is a mass of flesh and bone and bodily fluids, rotting as quickly as it can.”
    â€œAnd then it becomes part of the soil, or part of the bodies of crows and maggots,” said the treemage. “What form does her evil take, when she’s awake?”
    â€œShe deceives everyone, kills whomever she wants, and seeks to rule two kingdoms. To start with; I think her ambition will never end.”
    â€œIf she can’t wake up, then her ambition will only be fulfilled in dreams, where it harms no one,” said the treemage.
    â€œBut I don’t know that she can’t wake up,” said Wad. “I only know that she seems to be asleep, and has not seemed to wake up yet.”
    â€œSo if you knew that she could not wake, you’d leave her alive,” said the treemage, “because being alive would be useless to her. But if she might wake up, and thus make use of her life, you need to kill her.”
    â€œShe murdered my son,” said Wad. “And Anonoei, the woman who used to come here with me.”
    â€œThe manmage.”
    Wad had not realized that the treemage knew what she was. “A good woman,” said Wad.
    â€œA mother, as I recall,” said the treemage. “I believe you left her sons on Mittlegard.”
    â€œI did,” said Wad. “Because we thought they were in danger.”
    â€œThey are, I’m sure,” said the treemage. “What did they say about their mother’s death?”
    â€œI haven’t told them,” said Wad.
    â€œWhat makes you think that they don’t know?” asked the treemage.
    â€œBecause they’re on one world, and their mother died on another.”
    â€œThese are not ordinary boys,” said the treemage.
    That was true enough.
    â€œYou imprisoned them with their mother for more than a year,” said the treemage. “Then separated them so she could help you seek vengeance on Queen Bexoi. You owe them a conversation. You owe them the truth, that they are orphans no matter which world they’re on.”
    It was true that Wad owed a debt to them—their imprisonment had been terrifying and wrong, and it was all Wad’s doing. Now their mother was dead because he hadn’t realized that she was calling to him until it was too late.
    And now that he thought of her, it was as if he could hear her voice in his mind. Why haven’t you told my boys yet how I died?
    â€œI can’t tell them how she died,” said Wad. “It’s too terrible.”
    â€œNot telling them is terrible,” said the treemage. “Children heal better than adults. Tell them now, while they’re still children.”
    â€œThey’re on Mittlegard,” said Wad.
    â€œThen you’re the only person on Westil who can get to them,” said the treemage.
    â€œI’m not going to make a Great Gate, and I’m not going to use any of Danny North’s Great Gates either, because then the Belmage will know that I’m on Mittlegard.”
    â€œThen make a Great Gate after all. Use it and eat it so it’s gone.”
    Hearing it spoken aloud made it seem so obvious. He didn’t dare to make a permanent Great Gate, and the two that Danny made posed a serious danger to both worlds. But to